


Falling Through

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-14
Updated: 2006-06-14
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Dean doesn't understand how Sam can be so calm and accepting of everything they do. Also, phone sex.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Falling Through

Title: Falling Through  
Author: Impertinence  
Rating: NC-17  
Summary: Dean doesn't understand how Sam can be so calm and accepting of everything they do. Also, phone sex.  
Spoilers: Takes place during "Something Wicked", so all the way through.  
Warnings: Incest, gratutious angst.  
Word Count: 3,125  
  
  
  
“Kids just…languish in comas, and then they die.”  
  
The second the words sound in the receiver, Dean can’t speak. The images are flashing through his mind, so quickly and so intensely that he can barely see the sterilized walls of the hospital in front of him.  
  
_Sam._  
  
If Dad hadn’t come back—he’d _left him there._ It could be Sam lying in that bed.   
  
And it’s his fault.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
Sam’s voice permeates the fog of memory that keeps creeping up on Dean; but instead of easing the pain, it sends him spinning off, teetering on the edge of a knife that feels like it’s splitting him open.   
  
His stupidity, his disobedience, had almost killed his brother. _My fault,_ he thinks again, and his hands tremble.  
  
“Dean.” Now Sam sounds worried. Sam, worried about him. Dean laughs bitterly. He doesn’t deserve it.   
  
“Would you answer me already?”  
  
Still refusing to speak, he starts walking, the quick double-time that Dad drilled into him when he was barely old enough to talk, let alone hold a gun and march. He has to get the hell out of the hospital, away from all the kids who turn into his little brother when he looks at them, before he throws his cell phone away or jumps out the window or something equally stupid.   
  
“Dean, this really isn’t funny.” Rustling on the other end; Sam must be leaving the library.  
  
“I’m not—I’m sorry, okay?” He clears his throat and leans against the wall of the hospital. “The hospital was just freaking me out, I had to leave.”  
  
“When are you going to tell me the truth?” Sam’s voice is impatient, almost angry, and Dean winces. “You’ve been acting like some kind of drama queen off a soap opera, and you won’t even give me a reason why!”  
  
“That’s because you don’t need to know a reason, Sammy,” Dean says with forced patience. “It’s my business.”  
  
“My name is Sam, and it’s not your business if you’re wasting my time.” He pauses and Dean envisions him making that face—the one where he scrunches up his nose and tries to figure out Dean like he’s a complicated formula or obscure history fact. “Where are you?”  
  
“Leaning against the hospital. I’m gonna see if I can knock it down,” he says sarcastically. “Seriously, Sam, why do you want to know?” _Ever consider just leaving me the hell alone?_  
  
“Because you’re acting like a crazy person.”   
  
And then Sam’s voice changes. It becomes deeper, smoother.  
  
It’s the voice Sam uses when he fucks him, and quite frankly, it makes Dean nervous.  
  
“Go find someplace private and sit down.”  
  
“Fuck you, I’m not going anywhere.”  
  
“Dean. I’m closer to the motel.”  
  
“Your point being?”  
  
“I’ll key your car if you don’t sit down.”  
  
It’s playing dirty and Dean knows his brother is doing it on purpose. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters. “Where am I supposed to sit down then, genius?”  
  
“Remember that park we passed earlier? The one with all the trees, next to the old warehouse?”  
  
Shit. What exactly is Sam trying to manipulate him into doing? “Yeah.”  
  
“Go there.” The command is clipped off in a soft, deadly tone that ought to be illegal for Sam to use, and through the layers of guilt and not-quite-fright something stirs in Dean. He shivers—from the cold, he tells himself.   
  
“Feeling better yet?”  
  
“Screw you.” But Dean’s still walking, because this is what they do. Despite knowing that it isn’t life threatening, isn’t even all that important—despite knowing that the order is just a whim of Sam’s, Dean obeys. Some part of him is certain that if he hangs up now then Sam will leave again. Illogical though it sounds, if he breaks this connection, Sam will die.  
  
Just the thought makes him feel like kicking puppies.  
  
Sam is apparently still considering his offhand order. “Given that you’re walking down a public street, I’ll pass.” Pause. “For now, anyway.”   
  
“You’re a funny guy, dickwad.”  
  
“Not as funny as your face is gonna look if you don’t knock it off with the insults.” A rattling noise and then a muffled bang; Sam’s in the motel room. “Are you there yet?”  
  
“Um, almost.” He opens the park gate and goes inside. It’s one of those places that’s a park mostly just because no one’s bothered to develop it, which means that about thirty feet inside the fence, the carefully trimmed foliage gives way to denser cover.  
  
He hacks his way through about ten feet of brambles before coming to a large tree. A spongy carpet of moss has grown up to the base of its thick trunk; the air seems hung with dew, even so early in the day. Almost in spite of himself, Dean can feel that coil of tension in his gut start to relax. He flops down on the moss with a satisfied sigh.  
  
The crackle of static in his ear reminds him of the phone’s presence a second before Sam speaks. “Are you alone?”  
  
“This conversation is starting to get really damn disturbing,” Dean informs him flatly. “How do you know I’m not just gonna hang up on your ass?”  
  
“Because you’re curious about why I brought you out here.” The soft shifting of layers of cloth and _shit,_ but Sam’s right. Curiosity killed the cat and it’s probably going to kill him too, because despite knowing that nothing good can come of it he’s itching to see where this conversation will lead.  
  
Still, it doesn’t mean he’s just going to lie down and take it…whatever “it” is. “Bullshit. I just got nothin’ better to do.”  
  
“Sure.” Dean really hates Sam for how he can drawl like that, investing infinite sarcasm in what should be a one-syllable word. “Lie down.”  
  
Sam’s going to do it, Dean realizes. He’s tired and hungry and clearly as emotionally fucked up as it’s possible to be, and Sam is going to try to start some phone sex game with him.  
  
“You’re twisted, dude,” Dean says in that same expressionless voice. “And I’m hanging up.” He pulls the phone away from his ear.  
  
“Do you know where my hand is right now, Dean?”  
  
Dean freezes, inches away from slamming the phone shut. _Fuck._  
  
“It’s sliding down my stomach, edging towards my pants,” Sam continues. He’s speaking softly, but somehow Dean can hear every word as clearly as though Sam’s lying next to him. “I’m hard just from hearing your voice. Did you know that happens most of the time? Even that time when you were being chased by that truck, I still wanted to fuck you. Just from your voice.”  
  
It’s a sign of those whacky powers Sam has that Dean can’t do anything but gulp.  
  
“S—Sam…” he begins, fully prepared to tell him to shut his damn mouth.  
  
“Are you hard?”  
  
He is, and his face is burning despite knowing that no one can see him. “Yeah, I am.” Dammit. He wasn’t supposed to sound so defensive.  
  
“Touch yourself.”  
  
“Sam. We can’t…”  
  
“Hey, Dean? _I dare you._ ”  
  
It’s such a ridiculous statement that Dean snorts as he shifts the phone to his left hand and yanks at the buttons on his pants. “You’re fucked up, you know that?”  
  
“Hey, I got you to laugh.” Sam’s voice is light, happy, and even as Dean grips his own dick, the thought flits through his mind that he’d do anything to keep Sam like that. _Happy._  
  
Then it hits him what Sam’s trying to do. “Man, you don’t have to—“  
  
“Does it feel good?” Sam asks. “Can you feel me touching you?”  
  
Dean exhales slowly, moving his hand upward and brushing his thumb across the tip of his dick, letting the arousal wash through him. Usually it’s brutal and angry, teeth and hands bruising scarred skin; he tries to ignore the simple peace that not being able to see his brother brings him.  
  
With just Sam’s voice in his ear he can pretend that they’re…different. Normal, even. Just two guys doing what comes natural to ‘em.  
  
“Dean.” A hard edge runs through Sam’s voice. “Can you feel me?”  
  
“Uh, yeah,” he answers hastily. “You’re. Um.”  
  
Clearly he’s pathetic, because he can’t even say the words that roll off his younger brother’s tongue as easy as breathing.  
  
“I’m touching your cock, Dean.” Sam’s voice is next to breathless and maybe Dean’s even more insane than he thinks, because he could swear that Sam is nervous too. “You’re running your hand down my chest and biting my nipple, and we’re jerking each other off…slowly…” Rustling in the background and Dean knows that Sam is moving with him. They always have that, the connection that makes them one even when they’re miles apart.  
  
But. “Screw that, Sammy. My hand’s on your ass,” Dean informs him, courage coming out of nowhere. “I’m gonna finger-fuck you into oblivion.”  
  
“Shit, Dean,” Sam gasps, and Dean doesn’t need to be a Stanford graduate to know what he’s doing now. “I need—“  
  
Dean jerks down hard on his dick, reveling in the sensation. “You’re the one practically yanking my cock off,” he says smugly. “C’mon, Sam, you know you want it. Just a little bit further back and I’ll be able to hit that spot I showed you last week.”  
  
“Aw, shit. Dean—“  
  
His strokes are gaining speed now, his unoccupied hand moving up to tug at a nipple, flashing back to Sam’s little exploration of that area a few days ago. Jesus. “I want you, Sam. You know that? Even when I can’t—“ His throat closes up. _Protect you._ “I want you,” he repeats, the words spilling out to mask the stupidity he can’t help but feel.  
  
“It’s okay, Dean. We’re okay.” Harsh breathing on the other end, and Dean can’t tell if it’s the signal sputtering or Sam’s voice hitching, but it makes him groan.  
  
“But it’s not—I’m not—“ His hand is moving and his chest is heaving and there’s lust electrifying his body, yet somehow in all the chaos the pain only grows sharper. Fury rushes through him, chasing the guilt and making his head spin when he arches his back, the soft moss cushioning him in a way that somehow feels more brutal than if he was lying on gravel instead.  
  
“It’s okay,” Sam repeats.   
  
God help him, the sweet smoothness of that voice just makes him harder. “Your finger’s in my ass and I’m jacking you off, Dean.” It’s a lie and they both know it, but if he closes his eyes then it almost feels true. “Just let go.”   
  
His fingers twitch like he’s actually violating Sam the way his littler brother described. “Sam. Please, just…” He still can’t say the words, can barely even think them, because the idea of Sam coming to his voice is going to make him implode.  
  
“Talk to me.” It’s an order, quiet and determined. “I want to hear you say it.”  
  
Dean doesn’t know whether this is some Pysch 101 bullshit or whether Sam’s just off on one of his “fix big brother” kicks, but it pisses him off. “Killing—ugnh!—the mood here,” he informs Sam tightly.  
  
“Your point?” Christ on a cracker, he can fucking hear everything, and the pressure is escalating till he can feel it behind his _eyes._ He knows he’ll start babbling soon.  
  
“My point is that you need to tell me just how much you wish I was there with you. Right. Now.”  
  
Something in him vanishes—a block, mental or physical, that’s keeping him sane and his secrets private. “I almost lost you that night, and it’s killing me,” he says through gritted teeth. “You don’t—you’re trying to reassure me and shit, all I want to do is get you over here and fuck you _blind._ ”  
  
“Dean…just a little more…” It’s a whisper, but it fuels the demon that must be making him tell Sam all this.  
  
“I want you. Every second—of every day—I want you.” He’s jerking himself off brutally now. A rock has found the small of his back and he’ll be fucked if he knows why, but somehow that’s turning him on even more. “When you laugh, when you’re sleeping, when you talk…every single goddamn day for four years I missed hearing you talk. You got any idea how that feels, Sammy?”  
  
“I missed you too, Dean. Just—“  
  
“So tight and warm.” And yeah, now he’s babbling, so lost he barely registers the existence of the phone any more. “So—damn—good—“  
  
A strangled moan on the other end is all it takes. Dean shoots himself into the grass, squeezing his eyes shut and stubbornly ignoring the tears that leak out. _Sam, Sammy, I love you,_ he chants. It’s denial and acceptance, damnation and redemption, at the same time.  
  
And suddenly Sam’s voice is gone and he’s alone, falling through time, lost in memory and the regret and guilt that it brings. He can’t breathe, he can’t see—his senses are focused on the sex and the pain until they’re so tangled that he can’t tell one from the other.  
  
Slowly, slowly, he comes down, alone, shivering on the cool bed of moss. He’s gripping the phone so tightly that the plastic is bulging in places, and there are scratches on his thigh that he doesn’t even remember creating.  
  
_Sam, Sam,_ his mind still cries, even though he knows that the park is empty and Sam is miles away. The phone was just an illusion, a way to make this easier; but whether or not he comes looking into his brother’s liquid brown eyes, he feels the shame bearing down upon him.  
  
He’s crying now, ashamed, furious tears; white-knuckled fists pound the earth. It doesn’t satisfy him—the ground’s too soft, too forgiving.  
  
Then suddenly Sam’s there, holding him, and that’s the last straw for Dean. He hits his brother, plows his fist into that perfect nose, determined to drive the innocence and trust from Sam’s face.   
  
He doesn’t deserve any of it, and the fact that Sam gives it all to him day after day kills him.  
  
Sam should fight back. He should hit and kick and bite and scratch until Dean feels like maybe it’s enough, maybe he’s paid for all the hurt he’s dealt out to the little boy his brother was. But instead Sam just falls to the ground, his body hitting the moss with a soft _whump._  
  
Dean fights like he’s exorcising a demon, and maybe he is, because every time his fist hits Sam’s face it feels like absolution. He’s sick for feeling it, he knows, and that hurts him almost more than the sex did.  
  
No. That’s not right. It hurts him almost more than the aftermath did.  
  
He’s not sure if that makes it better, or worse.  
  
“Dean. Dean. Dean.” Sam says it over and over, a chant, till the syllables trip over each other and Dean doesn’t even know that his _name_ means anything before. He’s John’s son and Sam’s brother, and damned if that definition isn’t ripping everything that is _Dean_ apart.  
  
“Shut _up,_ ” he grinds out, splitting Sammy’s lip, and still the man—boy—whatthefuckever—beneath him doesn’t fight back. “Just—shut—up—“  
  
Arms reach out and encircle him, restraining but not fighting. He tries to struggle but he’s been taken by surprise, and the way their touching skin burns is making him start to wonder if maybe it’s he who’s the demon, and Sam the holy man.  
  
“It’s okay, Dean.” His name again, but this time invested with so much meaning, all of which centers around an idea that he can’t even begin to contemplate, because what kind of world is it where instead of brotherly love he gets _this?_   
  
Then Sam’s lips are against his and his hand is squeezing Dean’s cock. Dean bucks and struggles; he can touch himself with Sam’s voice in his ear but this, this is wrong. They screw when they’re both horny, riled up from a good fight; it never happens when they’re tired or in the least bit vulnerable. Never with the memory of Sammy almost dying replaying in his head like a bad song. Yet he can’t move, because just one of Sam’s inhumanly long arms is enough to keep him in place when there’s a giant paw making his entire body quiver.  
  
Having this kind of recovery time is absolutely ridiculous—it’s making him feel like a randy teen. Then again, Dean really has no idea how much time has passed between the last time he came and when he attacked Sam; so instead of protesting this reality, he lets his head fall against Sam’s chest.  
  
They’re both breathing hard, and Sam’s t-shirt is soaked with sweat. It’s disgusting, but Dean lies there anyway, listening to the _whump-whump_ of his brother’s heart.  
  
They’re still alive, still breathing. He clings to that fact, holding it as close as Sam’s clutching him now. Sam’s not dead and neither is he; no matter what mistakes he made, they’re not dead just yet.  
  
Sam’s whispering in his ear. _It’s okay, we’re okay, I love you, we’re gonna be alright._  
  
For that single, crystalline moment, with his head on Sam’s chest and Sam’s lips in his hair, Dean can believe him. He sighs and lets himself lets Sam take care of him, coming softly and quietly as Sam kisses him.   
  
His last coherent thought is that Sam’s shouldering a burden he shouldn’t have to—and something in Dean tells him that this is the way it’s going to be, for however long they can both go until they die. The thought shouldn’t be comforting, but it is.  
  
“I love you, Sam,” he whispers. Not couched in any babbling or cursing, just a simple statement. His tongue plunges into Sam’s mouth and he strokes Sam’s dick—once, twice, till Sam is coming with a soft cry.  
  
“So. This is how it’s gonna be.” He kisses Sam again, deep and searching, nipping on his lower lip as they come apart.  
  
Sam gasps, nods—and then smiles miraculously, like the sun coming up. “Yeah. Think you can take it?”  
  
That’s Dean’s cue to smack his shoulder. “Shut the fuck up. Of course I can.”  
  
The park echoes with Sam’s laughter. “Good.”  
  
And it is.


End file.
